12 Reasons Why
by PlrtzGlrb
Summary: Clay is just a friend from work. An acquaintance who might have been a friend. An acquaintance who finds a shoebox filled with tapes on his porch one day, containing a suicide note from a girl who isn't dead, yet. AU. Clay/Hannah.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Prologue

* * *

He bikes home from school promptly after the last bell. Some days, Clay Jensen stops to talk to an acquaintance in the halls or makes up some excuse not to bike straight home. It's a Thursday - typically an early-shift day for Clay at the theater, but the new girl asked him to trade shifts. He's not complaining.

On the way home, he thinks about his pre-calculus homework. Conic sections. He wasn't really paying attention during the lecture, so it'll take him twice as long to get through it. If only he had a math professor for a father, instead of English. (If only he hadn't spent half the period staring at the back of Hannah Baker's head.)

Hannah. His perennial crush. She's like the Kevin Bacon of his thoughts. How many degrees of separation does it take to get from Topic X to Hannah Baker?

Conic sections. Cones. Boobs. Hannah. _3._

They haven't talked since she quit the Crestmont to work in her parents' store. At one point, it seemed like they were fumbling toward some form of friendship, but then they stopped. Or, she stopped, and Clay didn't do anything to start back up. Not like she was making it easy. She'd been so distant in school. Stopped making eye contact in the halls. Wouldn't meet his gaze when someone made a particularly stupid joke in class.

When he arrives home, 15 minutes after the final bell, there's a package on his front porch.

It's small - a shoebox, judging by its shape. Wrapped in brown paper. No postage, no address. Just his name written in black sharpie.

Huh.

Clay doesn't usually get packages. Occasionally he'll order something with his parents' Amazon account, but he doesn't remember purchasing anything recently, and besides, no postage. There are no gift-giving holidays either fast approaching or recently past. His birthday's 5 months away. Curious, he takes the package into the kitchen and immediately opens it.

It's a shoebox, filled with...tapes? Six tapes, labeled with numbers written in blue nail polish. Maybe it's from Tony. Clay vaguely remembers Tony promising (read: threatening) to "educate" him, musically. Yes, that must be it. He's got nothing else on the agenda for the evening besides pre-calc, and he's not exactly itching to get started. Clay wracks his brain for a way to play the tapes. He searches the living room idly, not expecting to find anything, when he remembers: his dad's boombox. It's probably sitting in the garage, collecting dust.

He lets his gut lead him through the garage. It's full of clutter - Clay could waste a good chunk of time digging through junk before he finds this boombox, but he finds it sitting on the workbench.

He's never actually operated one of these before, but given his knowledge of symbols commonly associated with music technology, he finds the "eject" button with ease. The door slides open, and Clay pulls out the tape inside: Johnny Cash. Not bad, dad.

Clay returns to the kitchen to grab the shoe box. He sets the box down on the workbench and debates whether to listen to the tapes in order or not. It's just music, right? Tony takes everything so seriously.

But conscience gets the better of him. Or rather, Clay realizes it won't be worth the argument when Tony inevitablly quizzes him on the experience. Clay eyerolls just thinking about it.

He pops in the tape labeled "1," and hits play.

 **Hey. It's Hannah. Hannah Baker.**

"What the fuck?"

 **Don't adjust your...whatever device you're listening to this on.**

Clay sits on a metal stool beside the work bench. His jaw drops.

 **It's me. Live and in stereo. No return engagements, no encore, and this time,  
** **absolutely no requests.**

Clay jerks his head at the distant sound of keys dropping on the kitchen counter.

 **Get a snack. Settle in. Because I'm about to tell you the story of my life.  
** **Or, more specifically, why my life ended.**

Clay nearly gives himself whiplash. He stares bug-eyed at the tape deck. His fingers fumble for the rewind button. The tape squeaks as it backs up. He hits play.

 **-the story of my life. Or, more specifically, why my life ended.**

Fuck.

Fuck.


	2. Tape 1, Side A

"I need a ride."

Lainie Jensen hunches over a crisping drawer, obscured by the refrigerator door. She has to push aside a bunch of kale to make room for her tomatoes. "Alright, hold on, help me finish-"

" _I need a ride, now_."

* * *

Hannah lives on the other side of town. Why does Hannah live on the other side of town? Clay tells his mom to start driving toward the Crestmont, knowing Hannah's house is a stone's throw away, but he doesn't know her precise address.

"Pick up, pick up," Clay says into his ringing phone.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" his mother asks.

"Baker's Drug Store," comes the voice from the phone.

"Mr. Baker?"

"This is he."

Clay spits it out without a breath. "I'm a friend of Hannah's from school and I'm supposed to bring her a book, can I get your address?"

"Who is this?" Mr. Baker asks.

"Clay Jensen. I'm sorry, my mom is driving me and she's late for a meeting and we really need the address."

"Do you have a pen?"

Clay doesn't need a pen. Mr. Baker tells him the address, and he knows immediately where to go.

"Take a right up here," he tells his mom.

Clay hardly waits for her to stop the car. He unbuckles his seatbelt, and he bolts.

It's cold outside. Mid-October chill. The leaves are turning, and the sun is getting low. It's not even 4 o'clock, but it feels like a year has passed since he arrived home from school. He pounds on the front door.

"Hannah!"

Clay looks for Hannah's blue bike in the front yard, any sign that she's home, but it's nowhere to be seen.

"Shit," he mutters. "Hannah, open up!"

Nothing.

Clay steps back from the door and takes a broader look at the house, searching for signs of life from any of the windows.

"HANNAH!"

"Clay." It's his mom. She's sitting there in the idling car, more than a little concerned. Clay turns to her, and his face wrinkles in agony.

"Call an ambulance," he says. A sharp intake of breath.

His mom immediately springs to action. Dials 9-1-1 on her cell phone.

But then he sees it, from the corner of his eye. A spare key hiding under the welcome mat. Clay collects the key and does his best to steady his hands to open the front door.

It's an unfamiliar house. An unfamiliar layout.

"Hannah!"

He climbs the stairs to the second floor. He calls her name to no response. He hears running water. Oh God. Opens the door.

Oh. God.

"Hannah," he says. Her breathing is heavy and shallow and rapid and in slow motion. He reaches into the tub and rips her out of it, throws all of his weight into it, choking down nausea. He wants to vomit, scream, to die there with her, but he's got a laser focus on the task at hand. He plunks her awkwardly on the tile floor. Her breathing so shallow, so fast. She's wheezing, half-conscious. She says nothing, looks nowhere. The water keeps running, murky pink, almost overflowing. He pulls a towel from the rack and creates a makeshift tourniquet.

"Oh my god," his mother says, clutching the doorway.

"Help me apply pressure," Clay squeaks out. Lainie falls to her knees and takes hold of one of Hannah's forearms. Her wheezing continues, but slows. "Hannah, stay with me," Clay says. Wheeze. "Did you call?"

"They're on their way."

The towels begin to soak through with blood. Clay grips so tightly his knuckles turn white. In the distance, a siren rings, growing louder and louder and louder.

"Is anyone home?" comes the paramedic.

"Up here!" Clay shouts.

Paramedics rush in. Hannah's wheezing is slow and strained. Her eyes glaze over. Clay doesn't know if he's too late because they take her away on a stretcher and drive off. He can't remember the specifics. As soon as she's in their hands, he blacks out. When he comes-to, he's sitting in the waiting room at the ER, and Hannah's parents have arrived. His mother is stoic, all business, in full lawyer mode. Someone needs to parent. The Bakers are shellshocked. They've got no family in town.

It's a blur. He's told to go home, as if that will make him feel better. He doesn't have a choice. His dad is there, waiting out front to deliver him from A to B. They don't talk on the drive home. Clay can't focus his eyes on anything specific. He has the distinct impression that a bomb has just gone off. A sharp ringing in his ear cuts through everything and doesn't stop until he passes out in bed.

* * *

 **Tape 1, Side A.**

* * *

Twelve hours have passed since Clay found that package on his front porch.

He woke up at around 2 AM. The first thing he noticed was his headache. The second thing he noticed was that he was still fully clothed, shoes and all. Then he remembered.

He got up to piss. Took an aspirin and swallowed it down with water from the bathroom tap.

He felt trapped at home. No way he'd be able to fall back asleep. So he moved on to a plan.

He figured it would be a long shot, but he shot Tony a Facebook message asking for a favor. The guy kept weird hours. He made up some lame excuse about a history project ("You need that NOW?") and he received his response almost immediately. Clay said he'd be there within the hour.

Now, at 3:14 AM, under a violently fluorescent light, Clay takes a seat on a worn, teal, plastic bench. On the other side of the wall, Hannah Baker wavers between life and death.

He retrieves Tony's Walkman and the first cassette from his backpack and presses play.

 **-ended.**  
 **And if you're listening to this tape, you're one of the reasons why.**

 _Oh, great._

 **I'm not saying which tape brings you into the story.**  
 **But fear not, if you received this lovely little box,**  
 **your name will pop up. I promise.**

 _So, I'm on these tapes?_

 **Anyway, the rules here are pretty simple.  
There are only two.  
Rule number one: you listen.  
Number two: you pass it on.  
Hopefully, neither one will be easy.  
It's not supposed to be easy,  
or I would have emailed you an MP3.**

He shifts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

 **When you're done listening to all 12 sides,  
because there are 12 sides to every story,  
rewind the tapes, put them back in the box,  
and pass them on to the next person.**

 **Oh, and the box of tapes should have included a map.**

Clay reaches into his backpack and digs out a folded blue city map. He opens it. Notes a handful of locations around town indicated with red stars.

 **I'll be mentioning several spots around our beloved city.  
I can't force you to visit them, but if you'd like a little more insight,  
head for the stars. Or, you know, just throw the map away  
and I'll never know - or will I?  
**

 _Hopefully, you will_.

 **You see, in case you're tempted to break the rules,  
understand I did make a copy of these tapes,  
and I left them with a trusted individual who,  
if this package doesn't make it through all of you,  
will release those copies in a very public manner.**

 _Is that me?_ _She never left a note._

 **This was not a spur of the moment decision.  
Do not take me for granted. Not again.**

 **You're being watched.**

Clay looks around at the other people in the waiting room. Hannah's parents, he assumes, are in the room with her. An old man in a "Make America Great Again" cap snores from an armchair on the other side of the room. The receptionist files her nails.

 **Put your finger on "C," your other finger on "4. "**

Clay looks back down at the map in his lap.

 **Bring them together. That's our first red star.  
I know, right? A map. Old school, again.  
No Google Maps, no app, no chance for the interwebs  
to make everything worse, like it does.  
You've arrived at my first house in this shitty town  
where I threw my first and only party and  
where I met Justin Foley - the subject of our first tape.**

 _Justin_ _? Justin is first? So, does that mean I have the second set of tapes? Or does mine come later? But Hannah wouldn't have screwed this up - not something this important. Would she?_

 **It was just a party. I didn't know it was the beginning of the end.  
Justin, you were in love with my friend Kat. My only friend.**

 _Wait a minute. I was at that party_.

 **So, you see, that's where the trouble began.  
That smile. That damned smile.  
The one and only Kat moved away  
before the start of school. She was the kind of  
friend that couldn't be replaced,  
even by falling in love with the boy she left behind.**

Clay remembers it well. He can count all the parties he's attended in high school on one hand. And notably, it was the first time he ever saw Hannah Baker. Clay was excited to meet her before the party. He and Kat were not exactly friends, but they were friendly. Friends-adjacent. Kat alluded to a new girl with a mess of curly hair and a sense of humor so sharp it could cut through glass.

 **Being Kat's boyfriend was kind of the only remarkable thing  
** **about you, but, Justin, you were my Kryptonite.**

 _Yeah, why_ was _Hannah into Justin?_

They met that night. And she was everything he'd imagined and more - clearly, so much more.

And they talked. But he was too late to make the kind of impression he had hoped to make. Clay knows that attraction is not predicated on a first-come-first-serve basis, but with teenage girls, maybe it is. Justin was there, and he was...unavailable.

 _Is that why you wanted him, Hannah? Would it had made a difference if I had lied and said I had a girlfriend out of town?_

 _Probably not._

* * *

Clay is hungry. It feels strange and uncomfortable that he should be moved by something so basic as hunger at a time like this. At a time when Hannah might not ever feel hungry again, or anything else.

He digs in his backpack for money and musters up a few dollars and enough loose change to probably make do at a vending machine.

This hospital, like all hospitals, is labyrinthian in its design. A series of colored lines mark different paths on the linoleum floor. He decides to follow the blue one, unsure if it will lead him where he wants to go, but confident that he'll be able to find his way back when he's done.

Blue, as it turns out, leads him to the cafeteria. He got lucky. Clay curses his luck; if he could give up all the luck in the world and transfer it to Hannah, he would. But he can't. So he approaches the row of vending machines - high class vending machines. Not just PopTarts and Cheetos, no, but sandwiches and microwavable burritos. With the change from his backpack, Clay buys himself an (almost guaranteed to be awful) egg salad sandwich and a can of Coke.

He takes his haul to a hard plastic table, pops the top on his soda, and hits play.

 **I dreamed our first kiss would take place in the park.  
I never told you that. The dream starts  
with me at the top of the rocket holding on to the steering wheel.  
**

He's not going to Eisenhower Park. He's not leaving this hospital until he's either physically forced by his parents or Hannah wakes up. Or doesn't.

But he can picture the rocket. Can picture Hannah, with her long hair, standing at the top of that slide.

 **It's still a playground rocket,  
but every time I turn the wheel to the left or the right,  
the trees lift up like they're taking flight.**

 **And I'm scared because I don't know how to fly.**

 **But you're there at the bottom of the slide to catch me when I fall.**  
 **And that's all that happened. We kissed.  
**

 **Why? Did you hear something else?**

 _I did. I heard a lot of_ _things, actually. Why is that?_

Clay had heard that Hannah Baker got finger banged on that slide, that Justin felt her up on that slide, that she jerked him off on that slide. Clay figured there was some version of the truth buried in there, but he chalked it up to hormones. He never thought that Hannah was a _slut_ , but Clay just assumed that Hannah was, well...experienced. He never once stopped to consider that Hannah might have done _none_ of those things. He was so blown away by her confidence, her presence, the sheer force of her will.

 **See, I've heard so many stories about me now  
that I don't know which one is the most popular.  
But I do know which is the least popular. The truth.  
See, the truth isn't always the most exciting  
version of things, or the best or the worst.  
It's somewhere in between.**

It had felt like a compliment before, in his head. Now, looking down at his saran wrapped egg salad, he thinks he might barf.

 **But it deserves to be heard and remembered.  
The truth will out, like someone said once. It remains.**

 _Does it remain, Hannah? Will it out? Does Justin have the other set of tapes right now? Will everyone in school find out what happened? What you did? Do you want me to stop the tapes from spreading now that there's hope?_

 **So, thank you, Justin. Sincerely. My very first kiss was wonderful.  
** **What came after my first kiss? Not so wonderful.**

He thought that she had seemed different. Withdrawn. Now he knows that he knows absolutely nothing about what was going on in Hannah Baker's head in the weeks and months leading up to now.

 **I'm not angry you betrayed me.  
I'm angry that I trusted you in the first place.**  
 **A rumor based on a kiss ruined a memory  
that I hoped would be special. In fact,  
it ruined just about everything, as you'll soon see.**

But he's willing to bet he'll find out.

 **And stick around, Justin.  
I'm not through with you yet.  
I know you probably didn't mean to let me down.**

 _And what about me? Did I let you down, Hannah?_

 **In fact, most of you listening probably  
had no idea what you were truly doing.**

 _No - I didn't. I_ _don't._

 **But you'll find out.**

 **Turn the tape over for more.**

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A/N: Whoa! I'm blown away by the responses to the first, very very short chapter. Hopefully I'll be able to stay motivated to finish this thing.


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